


La petite mort

by luftballons99



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Fuck Canon My City Now, Gratuitous Quotation of Poetry, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Teasing, seriously writing this was embarrassing thats how cheesy it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21901348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons99/pseuds/luftballons99
Summary: His knuckles trace the line of Martin's jaw from ear to chin and back again, unhurried. Martin's hand flexes minutely against his spine. This is what love is, Jon thinks. This right here.or: Jon and Martin reap the rewards of being loved.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 116
Kudos: 1595





	La petite mort

**Author's Note:**

> _La petite mort:_ an expression which means "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness" and in modern usage refers specifically to "the sensation of orgasm as likened to death".

"I think I could die right here," Jon murmurs, cheek nestled in the warm fuzz of Martin's cable knit jumper, "and be just fine."

It's the first thing either of them has said in a while, the long, quiet hours of the late afternoon stretched out like the limbs of a cat roused from peaceful slumber. It's Saturday and raining, gray droplets tapping a steady rhythm against their bedroom window while they're curled up in bed, Jon's head cushioned by Martin's solar plexus, an arm slung around his middle. The air is warm with the smell of tea, steaming in a cat-patterned mug on their nightstand. Martin has one hand in Jon's hair and his nose in a book, his wire-frame glasses resting on the top of his head. He doesn't need them for reading, just for distance, and it means he only takes them off at home, his unobstructed face a sight only Jon is privy to these days.

Jon has been watching Martin's soft blue eyes for a while now as they follow the strings of words on the page he's reading, only ever straying to count and recount the freckles dusting his nose or study the way his hair curls against his temple. Martin is used to his staring by now, calling it an occupational hazard, but Jon thinks that's not quite right. Avatar of Beholding or not, Jon likes looking at Martin for the simple reason that he is nice to look at; because Jon loves him, and that feeling and all the ways he expresses it are entirely his own.

The break in the silence gets Martin's attention, though, his gaze flitting from the page down to Jon's face. He doesn't set the book down, but he does move it aside, revealing the tender smile on his lips. It's a smile that says "what am I going to do with you?", and Jon eagerly awaits the answer. He smiles back when Martin's fingers sink deeper into his hair and his toes curl against the mattress as warm fingers massage the base of his skull. The hand he has resting on Martin's side gives an affectionate little squeeze.

Martin hums in consideration, and Jon feels it rumble against his cheek, catlike and comfortable. Then Martin takes a deep breath, tilting his chin up the way he always does when he's about to recite something.

" _ The grave's a fine and private place _ ," he says, just above a whisper, his large hand fitting around the angle of Jon's jaw, " _ but none, I think, do there embrace. _ " 

Jon's heart flutters and he glances at the cover of Martin's book -  _ Metamorphoses. _ But Martin couldn't have been quoting Ovid just now; Jon has studied enough literature to know that. He mulls over the familiar words, trying to coax knowledge to the surface of his comfortably hazy mind without The Eye's interference.

"One of the metaphysical poets?" he ventures, nuzzling into Martin's palm and pressing a warm kiss to its center. Martin grunts his assent. Suddenly, Jon remembers. 

"Andrew Marvell," he says. Martin twists his hand to scratch at the stubble under Jon's chin.

"Very good,  _ my coy mistress _ ," Martin whispers through a bright grin. Jon snorts, lightly swatting Martin's flank, but his cheeks still blossom with heat from the approval, and he knows Martin can tell. Part of him wants to surrender to it; to roll over and have Martin whisper sweet nothings to him late into the night, poetry and praise huffed into the side of his neck between breathless moans. But Jon is, in his heart of hearts, a stubborn academic and an even more stubborn lover. Martin isn't the only one who can quote poets from memory  _ or _ reduce his partner to blushing putty in his hands. 

Jon leans into Martin's touch, silently dusting off memories of the years he spent poring over old books at Oxford. After a moment, he smiles and shuts his eyes.

" _I will live in thy heart,_ " he recites, soft as a prayer, " _die in thy lap,_ " his hand slides down the side of Martin's body, smoothing a path from rib to thigh, " _and be buried in thy eyes._ " He looks up at Martin, patient.

Martin is distinctly redder than before, but he doesn't look away. They've come a long way over the years. Martin doesn't fret and Jon doesn't hide. They can lay here together, simmering in the saccharine agony of mutual vulnerability, and know that it will not break them.

"Shakespeare, of course," Martin says, thumb brushing the ridge of Jon's cheekbone, circling over scar tissue. Jon doesn't think he even realizes he's doing it, but Martin's already gentle touch always softens even more over Jon's scars, even though the skin there has long since stopped being sensitive.

"Of course," Jon echoes, fondness a sweet ache in his chest. "Show-off."

Martin snorts, giving Jon's earlobe a light tug. "I don't want to hear that from you." His eyes go back to perusing his Ovid, which Jon finds unacceptable, so he turns, placing a kiss on the inside of Martin's wrist. Martin looks back down at him for a moment, his teasing grin mollifying into something else; something he tucks behind his book. He closes his hand around the back of Jon's neck, massaging him gently, almost as if in compensation. Jon craves attention more than either of them could have anticipated and Martin knows it, but apparently he's reluctant to let it get in the way of his reading.

Still, Jon can't help but sag into him with a wistful exhale. The hand he has on Martin's thigh coasts up to his hip, the other finding the faintest hints of stubble along the curve of his jaw. It's only visible to someone looking for it, but it scratches pleasantly against the pad of Jon's thumb. Martin answers his touch with a pleased sigh. Jon's head rises and falls with it and his eyes nearly flutter shut again, but he wants to see Martin, wants to watch the affection color his features as it gets harder and harder for him to concentrate on his book.

Martin's fingers work at his stiff muscles in familiar motions. Jon likes to think he's gotten better, but his work ethic still sometimes borders on unhealthy, and some nights he spends hours hunched over at his desk, sore and sour-faced. It takes Martin's fingers on his nape and a "please, Jon, for me?" to coax him into bed. It's the  _ for me _ that really does him in. 

"That's good," Jon sighs, squeezing Martin's hip appreciatively as Martin brushes his overgrown hair aside to give his hand more room to work. Jon often thinks about getting a haircut, but he knows Martin likes his hair this length, with his split-ends tickling his neck and jaw, even when it gets in the way.

Martin smiles down at him, warm blue eyes crinkling at the edges like a dog-eared page. He gives the back of Jon's neck a slow, hard squeeze, dragging a low groan of pleasure from Jon's throat. He does it again. Sparks of warmth ignite along Jon's spine with every touch. He feels something low in his abdomen coil, hot and pleasant. 

" _ You're _ good," he breathes, his hand snaking up until his fingertips brush under the hem of Martin's jumper. 

Now Martin's gaze is less like a hearth and more like a brand. Finally the little paperback volume in his hand snaps shut and he gingerly places it on the nightstand next to his long-forgotten mug of black licorice tea, not breaking eye contact.

"Come here," he says, smiling and crooking his finger.

Jon tries not to grin too much as he climbs into Martin's lap. He loops his arms around his neck, and even though he's been half on top of Martin for the better part of the afternoon already, he still feels like he's missed him terribly. He leans in, cups the sides of Martin's face, sips kisses from his mouth. It's warm and pliant, parting under Jon's like the well-loved pages of a book; the only one Jon could read again and again and again without ever tiring of it. Martin's arms wrap around his waist, secure.

One kiss ends and Martin starts to pull his head back, but Jon immediately follows him for another, not ready to give up the soft pressure of his lips just yet. He pushes his chin forward and slides his fingers into Martin's hair, tugging gently the way he knows Martin likes. His fingertips bump against Martin's glasses. He plucks them off the top of his head, fumbling blindly to set them down on the nightstand and making a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. He can hear and feel Martin chuckle at him, but after he angles his head and nips at Martin's bottom lip, he's quiet again.

They kiss lazily for a bit, basking in the comfortable thrill of being close. Just when Jon thinks he's gotten used to it, Martin will squeeze his hip or do something clever with his tongue, and suddenly it's like Jon's getting to know him all over again, learning the shape of his body blind. That coil of warmth low in his gut flares to life in intervals, Martin stoking it with every loving touch.

They have to breathe, eventually, and Jon feels a charge of excitement pulse through him when Martin pants desperately against the corner of his mouth. The room fills with the sound of their labored breaths and the distant patter of rain. It's not long before Jon has to kiss him again.

When he does, he slips his hands under Martin's jumper and undershirt, ghosting up his sides and over the sparse hair on his chest.

Martin laughs, low and breathy, and the kiss dissolves between their mouths. "Careful," he says, freckled cheeks coloring under the curious stare Jon directs at him then. "I'll...get hard."

Jon feels himself blush when he realizes Martin already is. Jon can feel him, stiff and hot through the soft fabric of his joggers and Jon's flannel. Jon bears down to meet him fully, the embers in his belly fanned into a steady, dizzying flame. Martin's breath hitches.

"So get hard," Jon tells him, leaning forward to kiss him again. 

Martin puts a hand on Jon's chest, stopping him. "Are you sure?" His eyes search Jon's, caring and hungry and quintessentially Martin.

Jon feels a bittersweet twinge in his heart. They've talked about this, about boundaries, about when and how and how much. Jon's not sex-averse, but his libido is a fickle thing, mostly dormant. Usually being intimate for them means kissing while Martin gets himself off, if that. There are moments, however, when Jon's whole body feels like an itch to scratch. Moments like now. It's been a long day, a  _ good _ day, and Martin's fingertips are warm and soothing on Jon's skin.

But the knowledge that he could still back out, that Martin wouldn't hold it against him, that he'll always ask before things go too far - that's something Jon treasures, no matter how obvious he's being that yes, he wants this, wants all of it, all night.

Jon's hands retreat out from underneath Martin's jumper and undershirt, reaching for his wrists instead. He pushes them down until Martin's hands are cupping his ass.

"I'm sure," Jon says, breathless.

He can see Martin swallow. "It's just, you usually don't - "

Jon cuts him off with a finger on his lips. Martin freezes. Jon lets his fingertip follow swerve of Martin's cupid's bow, thinking. He remembers something and allows himself a teasing little smile.

" _ Doth not the appetite alter? _ " he whispers.

Martin blinks, lets out an incredulous puff of a laugh against Jon's finger, and surges up to kiss him. Jon's smile melts in the warm press of Martin's mouth. Martin starts palming him through his flannel pajama bottoms, guiding him into slow, grinding motions against his lap.

Jon groans into the kiss before letting his forehead fall forward against Martin's, eyes fluttering open, meeting Martin's hooded gaze. He feels himself hardening with each muted brush of his cock against Martin's, thighs splaying further and further apart.

"Jon," Martin whispers through a shudder, hands creeping up so he can dip his thumbs under the waistband of Jon's tented pajamas and underwear. "Can I?"

Jon dips his head for a languid kiss, raising his hips in encouragement. Martin tugs the garments down as far as they'll go. Jon curls his arms around Martin's neck, both so he can keep his balance when he lifts his knees off the mattress one after the other and shimmies out of his pajamas, and so he can guide Martin's face to his collarbone and feel the hot, open-mouthed kisses he leaves there. He's wearing one of Martin's old shirts (it has a TARDIS on it, he recalls distantly) and he practically swims in it. The collar hangs loosely around his neck, leaving him conveniently exposed.

He gasps when he feels Martin's fingers between his legs, his cock beating in Martin's warm palm.

"Martin," is all he manages to say, but judging by the smile he feels pressing against the wet skin of his neck, it's good enough. Martin rubs him slow and steady, and Jon follows each stroke with a roll of his hips. When Martin sucks a bruise into the side of his throat, Jon tilts his head invitingly, letting out a low moan. He can picture it now; the deep purple, pansy-shaped mark that will brand him for days, tender to the touch. 

Martin's free hand slips under his shirt, cupping his ribs to steady him as he swipes his thumb over the head of Jon's cock, catching the precum beading there. Jon's breath quickens.

"Don't stop," he whispers, grabbing Martin by the chin and tipping his head up for another kiss. Martin accepts it happily, sucking on his bottom lip as he twists his hand in a corkscrew motion around Jon's length. Jon can't help but keen into his mouth.

"That good?" Martin wonders, his smile audible. Jon nods against his forehead. Martin's hand slips out from underneath his shirt, leaving Jon's skin cool, but any protest Jon might have made dies on his lips when he sees Martin fumbling for something in the drawer of their nightstand, his hand emerging after a moment with a small plastic bottle. Jon recognizes it, having watched Martin use it on himself many times, and feels his stomach flip. 

Martin clicks it open with a flick of his thumb and releases Jon's cock to squirt some lubricant into his palm. He opens and closes his hand a few times as he sets the bottle aside, and Jon realizes it's an attempt to warm the viscous fluid before touching him with it. It's such a small, common-sense gesture, but it makes Jon melt a little, and he surges forward to sweep Martin into a messy, appreciative kiss.

Martin makes an endearing little noise of surprise, but soon enough he's melting into it, too, and his hand is once again curled around Jon's cock. The pressure is warm and wet and exactly what Jon needs, his toes curling into the sheets. He wants to make Martin feel it, too; this aching, bittersweet delight.

"Take this off," he whispers, tugging at the waistband of Martin's joggers. "And your shirt. Everything."

Martin rumbles with quiet laughter. "You'll have to get off me for that," he warns with a lighthearted note in his voice and an especially tight stroke to Jon's cock. Jon pitches forward, bracing himself with a hand on Martin's shoulder and a pleasured groan.

"I don't want to," he hears himself mumble, which makes Martin laugh in earnest.

"I don't want you to either," Martin tells him. "Not now. I like you right here." And with that, he unfurls his hand from around Jon's cock, tentative fingers sliding between his cheeks. Jon inhales sharply, startled by the suddenness of it. He goes hot down to the bone.

Martin falters, kissing the corner of Jon's mouth. "Okay, love?"

Jon will never, ever get tired of that endearment. 

"Yes," he says, winded, framing Martin's face with grateful hands. They kiss again as Martin's finger slowly pushes inside him. There's a pleasant, familiar burn that has Jon trembling in anticipation of more. Martin hums before pulling back out to squirt more lubricant on his fingers. Jon grunts, hips wiggling impatiently.

"Relax," Martin whispers against Jon's chin, cool fingers returning to him. Jon shudders. "I've got you."

Martin's fingers are thick but nimble and they work Jon open with practiced ease, his free hand alternating between providing a steadying hold on Jon's waist and petting his leaking cock. When his fingers slide into him at just the right angle, Jon's head lolls into the crook of Martin's neck, mouth hanging open around a sweet sigh. He lifts his hips to rock into Martin's fingers, chasing that fleeting sensation of fullness, gripping the front of Martin's jumper like a vice, probably stretching out the fabric but not having it in him to care. 

Martin's hands are ceaseless now, quickening in encouragement with each of Jon's wanton moans. He takes him apart and puts him back together in turns, the slide of his fingers causing consistent waves of pleasure that crash but don't recede. The dull beat of rain against their window descends into a distant hum, the world outside their room, outside the tiny slivers of space between their bodies, evaporating into fog, and the lighthouse guiding him through it is Martin's voice by his ear, telling him,  _ that's it, just like that, die in my lap, darling,  _ with such tenderness that Jon could cry.

He comes into Martin's hand in a quiet shudder, whimpering his name. Martin strokes him through it, keeping his fingers buried inside until Jon softens in his grip and goes boneless on top of him. Jon shivers again when Martin's fingers slip out of him, whining quietly into his neck. He hears the sound of a tissue being plucked from the box on their nightstand and a moment later Martin's hands are back on him, warm and soothing on the planes of Jon's back. 

"I love you," Jon mumbles when he can speak again, lips brushing Martin's throat. They tilt into a lazy grin when he feels Martin kiss his temple and give his backside an affectionate pat.

"I love you, too," Martin whispers, chin resting on his crown. Jon deflates against him, burying his happy face in Martin's collarbone. Then, after a moment, "Um, Jon?"

"Mmn?"

"Could you let me up? I still need to -- well…"

The haze in Jon's head clears the same time Martin's words sink in. He props himself up on his elbows, looks Martin in the eyes, and makes a decision that brings a pleasant rush of heat with it. He raises his chin.

"No," he says.

Martin squirms underneath him. "No?"

"Because I'm going to suck you off."

Martin's already reddened face flushes deeper. He blinks. "You don't have - "

"I know," Jon interjects, already slinking down Martin's body. "I want to. I-I  _ want  _ to make you feel good, Martin. I want to try." He reaches for the hem of Martin's jumper and undershirt, pulling up until they bunch under Martin's arms, wetting his lips. Then he stops. "Is that okay?"

Martin laughs under his breath. "God, Jon, of course it's okay."

Jon smiles. "Good," he says, crawling down between Martin's legs.

He kisses along the trail of hair leading down from Martin's navel and Martin arches his back off the mattress, a needy little noise rising in his throat that Jon immediately decides he's intent on hearing again. He helps Martin shimmy out of his joggers and underwear, pushing the articles of clothing to the foot of the bed. Then his palms come to rest on Martin's inner thighs, slowly spreading them apart. Martin hides his face behind his hand with a sharp intake of breath.

This angle is new, and Jon feels his own face burn as he stares down at Martin's cock, swollen and red, laying against his hip. He settles between Martin's legs, stomach flush with the mattress, elbows crooked by Martin's knees. He starts with kisses to his inner thighs, tongue and teeth leaving wet, reddening marks in his wake. Martin's back arches again, his body going taut like a bowstring. It's fascinating, recognizing the signs of pleasure Jon felt just moments before in Martin, like reading familiar words in a new language.

"You're so good to me, Martin," Jon says, voice still low and rough from his own moaning. He cups Martin's balls, pleased when Martin seems to purr, and nibbles at his skin. "I want to be good to  _ you _ ."

"You already are," Martin says, lifting a hand to card through Jon's hair. Jon feels it tremble and aches. "You're incredible."

He smiles up at Martin, resting his cheek on his warm, milky thigh. 

"Wait 'til I get started," he says, and takes Martin's length in hand. He strokes him a few times, watching with interest as precum beads at the tip of his cock. Martin's hips lift, chasing the friction of his palm, and Jon decides he's waited long enough. Steeling himself, he aligns Martin's cock with his open mouth, and rubs the fat head against his tongue.

"Ohmygod," Martin rushes out. 

Jon squeezes his soft thigh, sweeping a comforting arch over his skin with his thumb. Then he guides Martin's cock into his mouth, sinking down on it slowly.

Jon has been intimate with exactly two people in his life, Martin included, so he doesn't have as much experience under his belt as most people his age, but even he knows Martin is big. Jon relaxes his jaw, trying to take in as much of him as possible, but has to pause when his eyes start to water. He pulls off of him again with a wet cough, hand curling around Martin's plump, slick length and pumping slowly as he regains his bearings.

"Jon," Martin whines against the back of his wrist. Jon glances up at him, heart thumping against his ribs as Martin lifts his other hand to fondle his chest, his nipple pink and pretty as a rosebud when he pinches it between his fingers. Jon doesn't realize his hand has slowed until Martin bucks into it with a desperate noise. 

"Please," Martin begs, arm lowering so Jon can see his whole face, flushed and freckled and absolutely breathtaking. He needs this, and Jon is going to give it to him.

"I'm right here," Jon tells him before taking him into his mouth again. He sucks at the head, stroking what his lips can't reach with one hand, the other smoothing over the soft skin of Martin's belly, fingernails dragging lightly through the downy hairs there. He keeps his eyes on Martin's the whole time, even when Martin squeezes them shut after an especially hard suck and moans. His hand reaches for Jon's hair again, Jon humming in encouragement around his cock. Martin smooths the strands out of his face, drags his knuckles down Jon's bulging cheek. Jon pulls his mouth off of him for a moment, leaning into the touch.

"Good?" he asks, surprised and a little pleased at how raspy his voice is. He keeps stroking Martin, trying to touch him the way he touched Jon; the way Jon has watched him touch himself, leaning back against Jon's chest with his large, lovely hands between his legs.

Martin's fingers curl under Jon's chin, thumb brushing along his swollen bottom lip. 

"God, I love you," he sighs, as if he just can't help it. Jon knows the feeling.

"Tell me when you're going to come," he says before swirling his tongue around the tip of Martin's cock. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, letting his jaw go slack and sucking Martin down. He bobs his head, hand sliding down from the base of Martin's cock to palm his balls.

Martin groans, tugging at Jon's hair, blue eyes half-lidded and shiny. Jon looks up at him through his lashes while he works, moving faster when he sees Martin start to unravel, teeth sunk into his bottom lip.

Jon hollows his cheeks and moans around him, and apparently that's what tips Martin over the edge, his thick cock beating once on Jon's tongue before his breath hitches and he says, "Jon, I'm gonna - "

Jon slips Martin's cock out of his mouth and into his hand, stroking him fast and hard. He rests his cheek on Martin's hip, looking up at him, at the ecstasy etched into his features.

"Let go for me, Martin," he murmurs, enthralled.

Martin comes with a bitten-off cry, hips straining up off the mattress, cock spurting hot over Jon's tightly curled fingers, and Jon feels his heart swell with pride. His wrist stings, but he doesn't stop his hand until after Martin has flopped back down against the sheets with a gasping breath. Jon releases him then, trying not to think about the mess, and he kisses his way back up Martin's still-trembling body. He leaves a playful bite on Martin's nipple, amused at the noise it earns him. Then he rises to his knees, leaning over to swipe a tissue from the nightstand, and cleans his fingers. 

He tosses the used tissue at the bin across the room, grumbling in disgust when it bounces off the rim and lands on the floor. He thinks about getting up to throw it away properly, but then he feels a tug on his sleeve. He looks down, and every feeling that isn't love or happiness or any of the other millions of wonderful things he never thought he'd deserve, let alone have, flees from him when he sees Martin's face.

He's lying there, flushed and happy against the sheets, chest still rising and falling with each blissful breath. 

"Come here, you," he says sweetly. Jon obeys as if compelled.

He pulls Martin's jumper and undershirt down so they're no longer bunched at his armpits, laying down next to him. Satisfied, he rubs a hand over Martin's belly, moving to rest his head over his heart, but Martin stops him with fingers at his chin. Jon allows his head to be tilted back for a kiss, eyes fluttering in surprise.

"You still want to kiss me?" he asks when they part, "Right after I…?"

Martin looks puzzled for a moment before amusement tugs at the corners of his lips. "I always want to kiss you, Jon," he says, fingers dragging through Jon's stubble. "Promise."

"Oh," Jon says, breath leaving him. His own mouth wobbles into a shy grin. He gives Martin a quick kiss, and then another, and then another, body tilting further over Martin's with every press of their lips until their chests are flush. He nuzzles Martin's dewy cheek, feeling Martin's breaths steadying underneath him. 

"So," he says quietly, retreating just far enough to look at Martin's face again. It's a good face. "I take it my performance was...acceptable?"

Martin chuckles, shaking his head. Fondness makes his eyes twinkle. "Yes, Jon, Christ. Ten out of ten, would get sucked off again."

Jon sputters through an incredulous smile, face going hot. "Are you...giving me a bloody Google review right now?"

Martin lets his head fall back against his pillow, laugh ringing like a bell. "You asked!"

"And here I thought you were a poet," Jon scoffs, tapping Martin's cheek with his knuckle. "Try being more evocative."

The words are scarcely out of his mouth before Martin's hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, pulling him down for a kiss that makes his heartbeat stutter and his eyes cross for a moment before falling shut in bliss. He cups Martin's cheek, relaxing into his gentle touch. He feels Martin smile.

"How's that for evocative?" he whispers against Jon's lips.

Jon, dazed and raw and hopelessly in love as he is, looks Martin in the eyes and manages a breathy, "I think you can do better."

Martin rises to the challenge.

* * *

"There's a term for this," Martin murmurs in the dark, so quiet the still-drizzling rain nearly drowns him out. He's teetering on the edge of sleep, face-down and bare against their tangled sheets. Jon sweeps the sweaty hair out of his face with the backs of his fingers, drawing warmth from his sticky skin.

"For what?" he whispers. His eyelids feel heavy, but he keeps looking at Martin's face half-buried in the other end of the pillow. Jon likes Martin like this; likes the  _ after.  _ The slow, even breathing. The low light. The echoes of pleasure still humming under their skin.

" _ This _ ," Martin answers with as much determination as he can muster, lifting a hand to Jon's bare back. His palm is still hot, thumb sweeping drowsy arches over his skin. "How right now feels."

Jon is just barely awake enough to have his curiosity piqued. 

"How's right now feel?" he mumbles through a sleepy sigh. He thinks he knows, but he wants to hear Martin say it.

"Like nothing hurts," Martin answers. Though his voice is thick with fatigue, the note of contentment in it is unmistakable. He yawns into his pillow, and then he adds, "Like I'm a peeled potato."

If Jon had the energy, he would laugh. Instead, he lets a dull pulse of how-right-now-feels wash over him, shifting just a little closer. His knuckles trace the line of Martin's jaw from ear to chin and back again, unhurried. Martin's hand flexes minutely against his spine. This is what love is, Jon thinks. This right here. Whatever other words the world has for it can wait.

"Tell me in the morning," Jon whispers, smiling as his eyes slowly slide shut.

**Author's Note:**

> referenced works: "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell, Shakespeare's "Much Ado About Nothing"
> 
> will i ever be able to write a jm fic without a pretentious french title? time will tell. ANYWAY i dont have much experience writing nsfw things and it probably shows but i hope you enjoyed!! im imagining this fic takes place sometime after the events of s4 but i try not to think about it too hard rip. lmk what you think and/or find me on social media for more jm and other stuff:
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/waldmotel)   
>  [main blog](http://comradesnufkin.tumblr.com//)   
>  [art blog](http://luftballons99.tumblr.com/)   
> 


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